Sorceress of the Second Sphere

12. Perfect Portrait - Peyton

The red, almost bloodstained-looking stone of the halls of Bleufontaine felt unsettling as Peyton stepped through its low-lit halls. The only sound was his steps and his sword slapping against his metallic cuisse. He was not fully dressed in his armour, but while walking around the camp, he had always made it a habit to cover his legs and shoulders while ensuring his golden tunic flowed around him, the Whitehill sigil proudly displayed upon it.

While away from his tent, he had to be prepared to enter battle at any moment, even though it would be suicide for any Ruvian to attack Bleufontaine while the second army was stationed there. With the winter here, and the snows ready to fall at any moment, no attack was likely to come. Yet, for Peyton, it did not matter, only a fool was not prepared, and only a fool dies in war without a weapon by his side.

He hated walking through Bleufontaine, the walls felt like they had eyes, the spirits of the long dead staring deep into his soul, all deciding if he was indeed worthy to enter his presence.

A painting was hung up on the wall, the late Duchess Issobella de Pomfret, a woman of such beauty that it was said that several wars were fought in Ruvia just so the victor could walk with her in the now devastated gardens of Bleufontaine.

Peyton stopped, staring at her famed beauty. Paintings had always fallen short of the beauty a woman possessed, in his mind, yet this almost life-sized portrait of the woman sat elegantly, a dress of blue draped over her, covering her legs as if water was flowing over them, a small white proud looking dog sat on her lap, he couldn't help feel his heart beat a little faster while watching her.

Her beauty was striking, her bright blue almost piercing eyes, ripping directly into Peyton's soul as if she was questioning his every move. Peyton felt exposed, weak at her gaze as if he was not worthy to enter her presence, yet at the same time, he was drawn to her, a desire to touch her, to hold her and to speak with her seemed to unnaturally take a hold of him. How could he desire someone so much who had long since died through a painting that eerily stood proud on a wall that no longer had the pride and life that it once had?

Many winters ago, Isovine had taken Bleufontaine from Ruvia with the blood of many thousands, as a result, all trinkets associated with the empire of the east had been burnt, scrapped or melted, yet despite the carnage, this picture remained. Even in death, Duchess Issobella could manipulate men to do her will.

Peyton took a step forward, raising his hand to touch the garment, yet his hand seemed to freeze, unable to stroke what he so desired. He almost felt unworthy to be in her presence, a pain unnaturally seeping its way into his fingers as it drew closer.

He stopped, lowering his hand once more, the pain dissipated, but his desire remained. Was this painting from another realm?

"Impossible to touch, isn't it?" a voice from down the corridor spoke.

The deep voice cut through Peyton's thoughts like glass. As he looked up toward the end of the corridor, he could see the stern features of Sir Emhyr forcing his way up to him.

Peyton immediately saluted, raising his hand to his chest and lowering his head, "My lord."

Before he knew it, Sir Emhyr had already stood beside him, ignoring his salute and staring directly at the painting with the same lust that Peyton had once shown.

"Several times I have attempted to touch the fabric, yet every time, my fingers develop an unnatural ache, one which I can not overcome." Sir Emhyr explained.

Peyton remained tight-lipped, eager to confer his thoughts with the Earl of Caernleigh, but conscious not to speak with him unless instructed to do so.

"Her beauty is of supernatural origin, even her long raven hair appears to change colour in a certain light." Emhyr continued, lowering and flexing his fingers as he did so.